Signs of Spring

Chalk art. In the form of butterflies, flowers, reindeer, and hearts scattered on the driveway, patio, and garage floor. Chalk pieces, pulverized by bikes and cars, can be found in similar locations.

Moldy Uggs. Fake ones, of course. Stiff from finally being dried out, they've been forgotten in lieu of flip flops and crocs.

Crocus stems. I say stems, because I didn't spray these little gems early enough and the rabbits have already feasted on the blossoms.

Shorts. It doesn't matter if it's 45 degrees in the morning, because by recess my kids are "so hot!"

Fundraisers. Why do 90% of non-profits seem to have their dinners and galas in the same three weeks of April and May?

Snow. We live in Minnesota - need I say more?

Tennis court trauma. Our neighbors in the back may not have the nets up yet, but scooters and bikes have made an early entrance.

Dried leaf cyclones. Leftovers from the fall that caught in the bushes snake their way onto our driveway and form annoying spirals with each new windy day.

A frenetic puppy. Through the cold of winter, small wildlife seemed so much quieter and out of sight. In these lengthening days, the singing and chatter of birds and squirrels now keep Millie pulling on her leash when outside and running from window to window when inside.

Cousin camp inquiries. We haven't even been to the cabin for Memorial Day, yet our kids are wondering about three days of family frolicking that don't take place till late August!

It's Not About Me, But it Still Bugs

I have read all kinds of family manuals which talk about the volatile, self-centered behavior I should expect with my dad's brain injury. It's part of the disability - yada yada yada. But there's still a part of me that is so shocked that my own father could say such vile words to me on a regular basis.

Some days I can take it better than others. Like when he calls me "mean," it reminds me more of what my kids would have said when they were toddlers.

Then there are times like yesterday - when he uttered words I don't even want to repeat - that are said with such a venomous tone that I have to listen to the message a couple times because I find it a little surreal that he's actually talking to me in that fashion.

The interesting part is that he is usually mad about something that we've covered a hundred times before. The frustrating part is that is usually follows an event or activity where I've gone out of my way to do something special for him. Whatever that special event happened to be is completely forgotten in his rage.

I have found that time does help to give me perspective. I woke up this morning, and the heightened emotions that I'd attached to my dad's message had evaporated. I remind myself that his inappropriate behavior is about him, not me. In the end, however, it's still stinks to have my dad talk like that to me.

Hand Holding

This past weekend Asher and I went to a play at the Children's Theatre, just the two of us - a mom and son date. That in itself was such a gift. But to top it off, I just loved that as we walked around, he still reached for my hand to hold. That used to be something I took for granted when he was younger, but at 10, I am so much more aware of these moments.

I can think of the other times he's held my hand in the past month - at the grocery store, leaving church, walking to his basketball games. Each time he grabs my hand, it is such a delight. I'm not sure when he'll decide that he's too old to do so, especially in front of friends. For now, I'm treasuring this affection and keeping in mind that it could easily come to an abrupt end!

Due Diligence - or should I say "Dues" Diligence?

In my business as a financial advisor, before taking on a potential new client, I take time to meet the individual in person; to learn more about them personally, discuss their background and goals, and review their financial documents. I don't charge for this, as it is part of performing my due diligence. We can't determine if there is a good fit for each other without this step.

In the legal profession, I've learned that those steps can equate to hundreds or even thousands of dollars. In my dad's quest to live on his own, he's now twice sought the help of an attorney to plead his case. Both have met with him, conveniently learned that he's financially comfortable (unusual for the average chronic brain-injured alcoholic senior living in a group setting), and after spending an undue amount of time "researching" his situation before determining that he is in fact placed in a suitable setting, slapped him with bills ranging from $800 to $3200.

I simply don't get this. Where is the oversight? Both claimed that my dad "had a right to be represented if he felt that he was being mistreated." I get that. But a couple phone calls to doctors, previous program directors, and easy requests for documents from my brother and I could have provided enough documentation for them to realize that my dad's request was not realistic. Instead, knowing that they were working with a vulnerable adult with financial means, they billed for every phone call, every email, and every lift of the finger related to working "on behalf" of my dad. I find this despicable.

How can my brother and I prevent future situations like this? My dad is highly likely to go back to the drawing board and just seek out another attorney. He is happy to boast of his savings, which I fear will only entice another lawyer to so valiantly "seek justice" for my dad. Mike says I ought to contact the Attorney General - not sure if that's the right outlet, but worth a try. Would love to find out if others have been in a similar situation with vulnerable relatives...

The Ol' Box of Chocolates

My brother has recently taken to the the famous "box of chocolates" line from "Forest Gump" when describing visits with my dad - because these days, we truly don't know what we're going to get. Over Thanksgiving, he was amiable and good-natured. We even got in some stress-free Black Friday shopping before he headed back up to Mahnomen.
Christmas didn't fare so well - his planned three night stay ended on the 23rd with a three hour showdown in the lobby of Embassy Suites, when he refused to go over to his sister's for the afternoon.

We gave it another cautious go a month later in mid-January, and invited my dad down to our house for an evening. Aside from being ornery about not getting to stay two nights, he was relatively benign. This led the way for my brother to give it a shot the next month, and have my dad down for his daughter's fifth birthday.

All went peachy (relatively peachy - he got stuck in the bathroom for 10 minutes at the Institute of Arts, had a couple accidents at my brothers, etc) from Saturday afternoon up till Sunday evening, when the party began. My dad waited till just before dinner to call my brother and I into a quiet room to let us know he wouldn't be going back up north. With the Christmas episode under our belt, we felt a bit more equipped to handle the situation. There was much less angst yet perhaps a bit more annoyance. Here we were, trying to celebrate a special day for my niece, and my dad decides to monopolize the evening. It ended with him walking out without his suitcase headed in the direction of downtown, us calling the cops on a vulnerable adult, and his program driver convincing him to head back to Mahnomen.

These last two weeks my dad has called wanting to come down and visit. He doesn't seem to see how his previous visits make us more and more wary of having him at our houses. If he could only string together a few uneventful visits, we'd better know what to expect, and be more receptive to his requests. Not the case right now. As much as I like chocolates, I'm ready for a bag of caramels.

Saturday Morning Snapshot

6:32 am: I wake to the quiet whimpers of our eight month old pup, Millie, who's kenneled next to the bed. I wait for a second round of her pleas before leading her downstairs in the dark, where we head outside so she can do her morning business. Glad I threw on a hat and coat - it's a cold one.

6:38 am: Back upstairs, she bounds into bed with Mike and me for some morning cuddling. Aside from Millie's routine licking, I hear more noise coming from our bathroom. Asher's already up and taking a shower. I find out later that PRIOR to showering, he finished filling out sixteen of his class valentines that we picked up from Target the day before.

6:45 am: Asher exits our bathroom in a not so quiet manner, but does take an eagerly awaiting Millie with him. After what seems like a half hour in Asher's room, they eventually make their way downstairs where I hear cereal and dog food being poured.

7:00 am: I hear Mike's Blackberry sound off a couple times in the kitchen - first two emails of the day for him.

7:15 am: Mike decides to get up, and less than a minute or two later Abbie rolls in from her room. I think she's come in to have her cuddle time; instead she has a question for me. Pressing her fingers out and in against one another, she asks me to guess what that is. Since she just was talking about "engineering projects" before going to bed, I assume that this is a science query. Wrong. Her response: "A crab doing push-ups in the mirror." Wow! Now that's an early morning zinger for ya.

8:00 am: Abbie finally gets up (she did actually come into cuddle as well), and I hold off a few minutes longer.

8:15 am: I haven't really been sleeping, but it feels so good to be nestled in the coziness of our down comforter, with no place to go till Abbie's basketball game at 10:30 am. Downstairs in the kitchen, I can hear Asher whistling a medley of 80s rock songs and Christmas carols. Somewhere in the fridge, there's a protein-packed Icelandic yogurt calling my name. I slip on my felt slippers and head down to join my family.

Rolling With It

It took my ten year old son to teach me that not everything I write on here needs to be a thesis - in his two short days of starting his blog, Asher has more entries than I do, and I've had this darn thing up and running for months!

Even now, as I tell myself to just relax and write what comes naturally, I find myself worrying about proper grammar, and whether my thoughts flow, etc.    My goal going forward is going to be to be more "kid-like" in my blog process.  Be spontaneous.  Have fun with it.

So for today, I don't even have anything big to write about, I'm just making a pact with myself that I'm going to follow the lead of my darling son, and when the mood strikes I will take a few minutes to capture a thought or image, sit down at the computer,  and just roll with it.